


it wasn't for us

by rookerrogue



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Corsetry, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Mutual Pining, Pining, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookerrogue/pseuds/rookerrogue
Summary: In an AU where Christine befriended the Phantom a long time before any weird manipulation started happening, they've started mutually pining for each other.Also, they're lesbians.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	it wasn't for us

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for @Mrdraws on tumblr (and it's their AU!) go check them out!

“You didn’t want anyone to help you?” Erik asked, peering down at Christine from her perch in the rafters of the dressing room. “Don’t you usually have trouble with--”

“With the corset, yes, but. . . I think I can handle it this time.” Christine blew a puff of hair out of her eyes and started unbuttoning the front of her dressing gown. There was a surprised squeak from the rafters, and when Christine glanced up, Erik was gone.

“I appreciate your dedication to preserving my modesty,” she muttered under her breath.

“It’s the decent thing to do,” came a voice from behind the walls.

Christine, shrugging the thing off her shoulders, sighed. Erik was  _ so  _ unfailingly polite. Would it kill her-- just  _ once--  _ to be some sort of daring and audacious Opera Ghost who would not hesitate to take advantage of Christine’s lack of an outer garment, and look? 

Honestly, anything that would suggest to Christine that Erik had any sort of the same interest in Christine as she felt toward her.

But that was audacious of  _ her,  _ Christine, to want that from her friend and trainer who had been nothing but kind to her for months. Imagine wanting romance from someone who had given you hours of their day as a friend. Would it not suggest that you were selfish, that you wanted more-- that you had always wanted more? And what if Erik did not feel the same? 

The humiliation, Christine felt, would be too much to bear. She did not want to lose Erik-- not for a wild and impulsive moment where she confessed her feelings and yanked them out, trembling and shining and bare, into the space between them. She would endure a thousand years of wanting before she lost Erik for something as simple as a love that wanted to be more. 

“I’m dressed,” she called out-- well, she was dressed enough, with a white cotton underdress that reminded her how hot and stuffy she would soon be in her stage clothes. Maybe Erik had gone off to her box already, although Christine doubted it-- she always liked to be there for Christine up until the moment she stepped onstage. But it didn’t hurt to check. 

“I’m glad,” Erik said, reappearing like-- well, like a ghost, on the rafters above her once more. “We have much to go over before the play.”

“I’ve practiced a thousand times,” Christine said disappointedly. 

Erik cocked her head. “Once more, then? For me?”

Damn Phantom. Christine crumbled.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Come on, get down here. I need to see your face.”

Erik flinched, but began to climb down-- Christine realized her mistake on the second rafter. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, as Erik reached the floor. “You know I’ll never ask you to-- I would never, not unless you want to. I promise.”

“I know.” Erik straightened her shirt awkwardly, adjusted her gloves, and nodded. She was halfway into Phantom attire, her legs clad in the black pants that hid blacker boots and a white shirt, half unbuttoned, tucked into them. Her cape was left swinging above in the rafters, and her jacket was God knows where, probably being pressed by some poor maid who didn’t know why she had an extra outfit to prepare but wasn’t paid enough to argue. 

“So what is it that you think I need practice on?” Christine asked, smiling and setting her hands on her hips. “If I remember right, we only have about an hour before the curtain.”

“I could have helped you with so much more if those damn managers hadn’t robbed me of the time with those inane press meets,” Erik groused. “An  _ hour?  _ That’s barely enough time for a few scales.”

“Sit, then,” Christine instructed, “and I’ll do as many as I can.”

Erik lowered herself to a seat on a trunk, folding her hands in her lap. “Start from what we practiced last time, and if we have time, we’ll work at those triads again.”

Christine smiled at her Phantom, nodded, and took in a breath to begin.

She was radiance, she was the sunlight itself, she was the only good thing in the world. She was a saving grace and the truest angel and her voice was a vision from a God that Erik might believe existed if only to create Christine--

“Erik, are you all right?” Christine asked, dropping down from the high note she’d been softly holding. 

Erik, realizing that she was staring off into the middle distance, jerked her eyes back to Christine.

“Of course,” she said.

“If you’re worried about the show tonight--”

“I’m not!”

“I was going to say you don’t have to be,” Christine said firmly. “I’m not scared at all. I know you’ve trained me well enough to do it well.”

“Not just well,” Erik said, standing. “Perfectly. So perfectly that you will be lauded in the papers long after Carlotta has taken her turn in the spotlight.”

“You don’t have to be so mean to her,” Christine said, but she laughed, and Erik knew she felt the same. “Well, I hope you will be pleased.”

“Christine, I have no doubt in you,” Erik declared. “Did your father not tell you of the Angel of Music that would come to watch over you in his absence?”

Christine turned her eyes downward. “A child’s dream,” she murmured. 

“No, Christine. If your father could see you today-- if he could witness your triumphs-- I have no doubt that he would know as well as I that  _ you  _ have become the Angel of Music.” Erik’s voice trembled, and she worried, just for a moment, that Christine would see her adoration even through the mask. 

“You think he would be proud of me?” Christine asked, sitting down on a trunk.

“I  _ know  _ he would.” Erik smiled, though she knew Christine would not see it. “How could anyone not be proud?”

Christine flushed, and she turned away and began arranging her dress. “You are too kind to me.”

Erik stood there, her hands hanging uselessly at her sides-- she had knowledge of both good and evil, of building castles and designing machinery and looping rope around the necks of worthless men, but what did she know of love? What did she know of Christine, of this Angel of Music, too perfect for the eyes of Erik to fall upon her? She had befriended Erik, a monster unworthy of love (as she knew she was, ultimately; if Christine ever set eyes upon her true visage, Erik felt she could not bear it, could not stand to see the eyes of her Angel cloud with realization and disgust). 

Her mask was a blessing in myriad ways, but an unexpected advantage, in the most recent months, had become the fact that Christine could not see the yearning which, Erik felt, must be so evident upon her features. Not that any sort of yearning would matter anyway, if Christine ever saw Erik’s face, but when Erik felt the long hand of a blush stroking her hidden cheek, she felt everlastingly grateful that Christine could not see it. 

For what right did she have to want Christine? She, who had murdered and lied and manipulated-- under justifiable purposes, for sure, but when held up to Christine’s light the deeds seemed ugly and dirty. Christine had given her  _ friendship--  _ imagine that, something so alien as friendship-- and Erik wanted  _ more?  _ Only she could be so presumptuous, only she could  _ dare  _ to potentially destroy something she’d only ever had from the Daroga. 

Erik would not say anything to Christine and that was that.

“I hate to admit you were right,” Christine said ruefully, and Erik startled, looking up. “I really can’t get this corset on by myself.”

“You-- should I-- a maid?” Erik stammered.

“Ah, they’ll all be rushing around with everyone else. It’s twenty minutes to curtain, the chances of finding someone open to help me are low.”

Erik drew herself up, steeling her nerves. “Then I will do it for you.”

Christine smiled brightly, and Erik’s determination nearly cracked. “Oh, will you, Erik? I can’t thank you enough. Let me. . .”

She picked up the corset and handed it to Erik, who shook out the looseness of the strings and held it flat in front of her, a sort of protection barrier against Christine, who had held her arms out straight to either side of her and was waiting, expectantly.

“You’ve done this before?” she asked, as Erik approached. 

“Yes,” Erik said stiffly. “On. . . others. Never worn one myself.”

_ Christine trusts you,  _ her mind shouted.  _ Christine is letting you do this, and you will respect her decision and not give her any reason to feel uncomfortable. _

She reached Christine and slowly wrapped the corset around her back, holding the two flaps together in the front, just beneath her breast. 

“Hooking the clasps may be easier with your gloves off,” Christine suggested.

Erik trembled. She slowly slid each glove off, laying them to the floor below her, and began to hook the clasps. Her fingers brushed against Christine’s body, burning each time, and yet she refused to react. Six clasps, and it felt like an eternity.

The last clasp, the top one, was barely in its place before Erik was stepping away hastily, pulling her gloves back on with as much aplomb as she could manage.

But then Christine turned around.

“I shouldn’t need it too tight today,” she said over her shoulder. 

Erik gathered her nerves and her strength, and cast her shaking and cowering to the side as she stepped toward Christine. She had rested her elbows on the desk in front of her, and her hair lay over her shoulder as she glanced back towards Erik. Her back curved inside the dress and the corset, so achingly present and so inexpressibly untouchable. 

“I can do this,” Erik whispered to herself.

“What?” Christine asked.

“Nothing.” Erik slid her gloves off. “Try and relax, Miss Daae,” she suggested, desperately pulling on her bold front once more.

Oh, God. Oh,  _ God.  _

This was so much of a mistake that Christine could barely believe the incompetence of the Christine-of-five-minutes-ago who had thought it was a good idea. How was she supposed to cope with Erik fiddling around with her bodice, her deft fingers twisting clasps into place and delicately avoiding the swell of her breasts?

How was she supposed, for God’s good sake, to deal with Erik standing behind her as she bent in, frankly, a  _ wholly indelicate manner,  _ over her desk? How would she pretend to be unaffected as Erik gathered the strings of her corset and pulled?

. . . Which she was doing right now. Christine stiffened and moderated her breath, feeling Erik’s fingers pick apart the tightness of the top ribbon and begin to pull out loops at the middle. Erik, of course, was wholly unbothered by this whole endeavor, her voice cool and collected as she murmured words of encouragement and asked, periodically, if the corset was well-adjusted. Damn Phantom with her-- with her--

Christine gasped slightly as the corset really became snug, and tested to see if she could breathe as fully as she would need to for the concert.

Erik had paused.

“I’m all right,” Christine assured her. “That should be good for the slack.”

“Shall I tie it now?” 

“Please,” Christine said. 

She really hadn’t asked Erik to tie her corset out of any ulterior motive, she reflected, as the woman began to tie her ribbons in short, efficient movements. She was just that bad at putting them on herself. It was only once Erik actually began the deed that Christine realized what it must have sounded like. 

Not to Erik, of course, because Erik could never actually desire her, but. . . if she  _ had. . .  _ if they were lovers, well. . . 

_ If  _ they were. Because Christine would  _ never  _ be so presumptuous as to believe for a  _ second  _ that Erik might actually-- what, secretly love her? Be hiding her adoration? Feeling the same things that Christine felt?

Stupid.

Really, stupid.

“Go ahead and adjust the sides,” Erik said, stepping back. “Is it too tight on your hips?”

“No,” Christine said shortly, and quickly wiggled into a more comfortable position with it and began throwing on her outer dress. “It’s wonderful, thank you,” she added, seeing Erik step away.

“I. . . look forward to seeing you perform tonight,” Erik said softly.

And there it was again. Christine could have wept. How could Erik say these things and not feel for Christine? 

“Thank you,” she replied. “I will do my best to perform well.”

“I have no doubt in you,” Erik asserted, her eyes flashing. “None at all. Go and astound them, Christine-- go and sing! Sing for them, sing for the masses and the lords and ladies who have traveled to see you,  _ not  _ Carlotta,  _ you!”  _ Her hands were animated, and her voice rang as she grew more passionate. This was a common habit of Erik’s-- laud Christine before her performance, perhaps in an effort to inspire her. “Sing well, Christine, sing clear and loud and strong! Sing for them, Christine, and watch them weep!”

And then Erik was gone, off to claim her box before the curtain opened.

“I sing only for you,” Christine said quietly, to an empty room.


End file.
